Hassan plunged the spoon into the bag and brought it out, filled with gold-dust, which he poured into the empty pan. The scales rose, fell, trembled, and then settled even.
"I nearly always can judge an ounce," said Hassan; "a grain is another matter."
He weighed out sixteen ounces. The last ounce he left in the pan. Then he turned and, with a sweep of his arm, caught a fly from off the wall. He handled it with the greatest care until he held it in the tips of his fingers; then he put it into his mouth and closed his lips. In a moment he took it out. The fly was moist and dejected. He placed it upon the gold-dust in the pan. The fly began to beat its wings and work its legs. In a moment its color changed from blue-black to yellow. It was coated with gold-dust. Hassan lifted it with a pair of tweezers, and popped it into an inlaid box.
"My commission," he said. "Good-by. Allah be with you."
The old man tied up his bag, which seemed to be as heavy as ever.
"I thought," said Abdullah, glancing at the purse, "that seventeen ounces was all you had."
"What remains," said the old man, and there was a twinkle in his eye, "belongs to Allah's poor, of whom I am one."
"I regret," said Abdullah, with some heat, "that I did not treble my usual price. I merely doubled it for you."
The old man's face clouded, but only for an instant.
"My son," he said, "I am glad that I have intrusted my daughter to you.
You will bring her to Biskra in safety. At what hour do you start?"